


Wrought by Prayer

by jillyfae



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, Drama, Family, Gen, Magic, Prequel, The Chant of Light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All she wanted was a simple life, a home and family to call her own.  But simple is seldom easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrought by Prayer

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Chantry Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/25574) by foxghost. 



> This story deals with some difficult content that doesn't fit easily into the standard warning tags. To avoid spoilers, there is a content warning at the end; please click the link to the end note if you are concerned.

_God fulfils Himself in many ways,_  
_Lest one good custom should corrupt the world._  
_Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?_  
_I have lived my life, and that which I have done_  
_May He within Himself make pure! but thou,_  
_If thou shouldst never see my face again,_  
_Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer_  
_Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice_  
_Rise like a fountain for me night and day._  
_For what are men better than sheep or goats_  
_That nourish a blind life within the brain,_  
_If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer_  
_Both for themselves and those who call them friend?_  
_For so the whole round earth is every way_  
_Bound by gold chains about the feet of God._

_[Alfred, Lord Tennyson](http://www.bbc.co.uk/poetryseason/poets/alfred_lord_tennyson.shtml), [Morte D'Arthur](http://library.sc.edu/spcoll/britlit/tenn/morte.html)_

* * *

 

 

* * *

Her hair had been blond once.

> _At last did the Maker_  
>  _From the living world_  
>  _Make men. Immutable, as the substance of the earth,_  
>  _With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear,_  
>  _Endless possibilities._

Rich and golden, her hair was her greatest vanity on special occasions, braided and curled and shining in the sun.  Her new husband took his time unwinding it on their wedding night, his fingers sure and slow and thorough, the gentle pull and slide making her close her eyes and hum softly, leaning in to his touch.

_Her mother had called him hard, hard as the stone that edged the mountains, had asked her if she was sure._

Her husband's breath was warm against her skin, and his fingers soft and gentle.

_Her sister had called him boring, solid as earth and twice as brown, had taken her hand and told her she didn't have to marry him._

Her husband's hair was brown, darker than his skin; his eyes were brown as well, but that didn't make them dull.  They were warm, rich as sage honey in the firelight and deep enough to drown in.

_Her father hadn't said anything at all, just sat, still and quiet, and looked at her face, and then he'd smiled, because he of them all knew how to read the hope in her eyes._

Her husband laughed, low and slow, a rumbling in his stomach and against her soul, as his fingers got caught in the line of tiny buttons down the back of her wedding dress.  She turned to catch his hands in hers, felt the tremble beneath his skin, saw the hope in his smile, and she kissed him again, just because she could.

> _In your heart shall burn  
>  An unquenchable flame  
>  All-consuming, and never satisfied._

It became their ritual, her favorite sort of evening, sitting before the fire and brushing out her hair, making all the world around her warm and crackling, hair gleaming and reflecting light into her eyes until all she could see was gold.  Until her husband leaned close and took the brush from her hand, and pushed her hair back from her face, and all she could see was his eyes, all she could feel was the gentle brush of fingers against her skin, an instant of warmth before he kissed her.

His hand were broad, and strong, his thumb sliding under her chin to lift her mouth up against his lips, his fingers splayed down her neck to her collarbone.

She'd seen him pick up an injured heifer to take her to the barn for tending without even a hitch in his stride at the added weight, and yet his arms around her were always gentle as he lowered her to the hearthrug, the heat of the fire beside them nothing to the heat of his skin against hers.

Life was perfect.

Until her moon's blood was late, and she had such hope, though she hadn't said anything to him, not yet, it was too soon to know, too soon to say.  But her hand would rest on her stomach while she was cooking, and she could not stop imagining the joy deep in his eyes, the smile that would ease across his face when she told him.

Barely a fortnight passed before it came again, dark and heavy.

The next season it happened again, late by almost an entire moon, and when it came the cramps twisted hard in her gut and she cried every time her husband looked away, desperate for him not to see, not to know her failure, and went to see the midwife while he was working.

> _And as the black clouds came upon them,  
>  They looked on what pride had wrought,  
>  And despaired._

Their lives were slowly coming apart.

He went to pray, a few times a week, solitary walks along the edges of his land.  She had thought it their land, at first, but not now, not anymore.

Afterwards he would head into town to bow his head and speak with the Priest.

He wouldn't talk to her when he returned.

He wouldn't sing during the weekly services with the rest of their neighbors, instead his fingers would wrap around hers, his grip much too tight, as she tried not to cry from pain in her hand, from the pain in her heart, as they both tried not to stare, or wince, not to react at all to the sounds of other people's children laughing and singing and playing and crying.

Tried to ignore the pitying glances of the men and women who already had children in their homes, the whispers when no one thought they were close enough to hear.

He never wandered through the kitchen at midday anymore, no more slide of hand along her hip, no more pause to breathe in the scent of her hair, no more laughter as he stole a piece of whatever she was making before it was ready for the table.

She'd stopped brushing her hair before the fire, because the darkness in his eyes didn't lift even when he tried to smile for her, and it broke her heart all over again, every night, and she could not carry his pain on top of her own, not and still wake up the next morning.

He never said a word against her, was still kind and soft-spoken.  But she felt the hard edge of his body beneath his words, and she felt the despair catch in his lungs and her heart, and when he touched her it felt like duty, not like joy.

She stopped reveling in the feel of his strength held so carefully above her, finding instead that his weight in the dark pressed down, too heavy, and it was hard to breathe until he'd finished, and rolled over and away.

They'd married for children as well as love, and she wasn't sure the second would survive without the first.

> _Yet shall the Maker be my guide._  
>  _I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._  
>  _For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light_  
>  _And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

It took almost four years for the Maker to finally smile upon them.

His cousin came to stay with them, and when she had to leave it was her sister's turn.  The Priest herself came to visit, now and then, would pray and touch her face with smooth pale hands, would offer a small tight smile and present a benediction before she left.

The midwife came once a week, at least.

No one would let her stand for more than it took to get a drink of water and take a trip to the necessary.

Especially when the midwife realized it was twins.

Her husband would sit beside her in the bed, and hold her hand, his thumb brushing slowly over her knuckles, and tell her all about his day.  About the weather beyond her window, about the merchants traveling the road into town, about the crops and the animals and the birds in the trees.

And if sometimes he'd have to stop and bow his head, his hand still and hot against her skin, if sometimes there was a shiver in his voice, or a shine in his eyes, she understood.

Hope hurt worse than despair, especially when it came with so much fear.

Fear that, even now, something would go wrong.  Fear that all their dreams would die along with the tiny fragile lives inside her.

It was only when her time was almost up, her days an endless impossible unbearable ache of boredom and abject terror as she watched the shift of life pushing up beneath the swell of her stomach, when she promised him she'd give him his child, no matter what, and he turned and held her tight, his hand stroking her hair and his breath ragged against her neck, his voice thin and almost unrecognizable as he told her not to say that, that she realized that his fear was for her, most of all.

> _Let him take notice and shine upon thee,_  
>  _for thou has done His work on this day_  
>  _And the stars stood still, the winds did quiet,_  
>  _and all animals of earth and air held their breath_  
>  _And all was silent in prayer and thanks._

It hurt more than she'd ever imagined, and it took too long, and there was too much blood, and her hands were cold and she was too thirsty to cry, though she tried, long before she was done.

But finally there were two small bodies tucked up against her sides, pulling on her breasts, and she managed to smile before she fell into darkness.

Everything still hurt when she woke, her throat was too tight and there was an ache low in her stomach that she couldn't bear to think about, too dull and hot and sharp, both almost numb and too sensitive to consider, and she had a vague memory of something _wrong_ and _permanent._

But she couldn't think of that, could barely think at all, breath cold and shallow as she tried to blink through the darkness and find her children.  Had she dreamed them?  Were the real? Did they make it, all of them, and she was trying to reach out, trying to think, trying to ask, and she heard the desperate whine of her breathing, too fast, too difficult, _please, Maker, please._

A palm against her cheek, a whisper in the dark, she knew that hand, she knew that voice, and she finally managed to take a proper breath as she turned her face towards her husband's warmth.  His lips pressed against her forehead, and she felt his sigh more than she could hear it, she felt his hands resting against her cheeks, and the weight of him filling the air beside her.

He stayed there, too long, too still, and she lifted her hands to feel his wrists beneath her fingers.  She breathed in the smell of his skin and their home, and tried to ignore the twist of fear still lodged in her heart. _Please, our children, please._

But finally his breath was moving again, almost steady, soft against her skin, and he pulled away, slowly, even as her eyes started picking out the shape of him between the shadows.  He nodded, his nose almost nuzzling against her cheek, until she sighed, and swallowed a wobbling sort of giggle.

_Everything was all right._  She wasn't sure how, or when, but it was, at last, all right.

He helped her sit up, and brought her pillows, and kissed her again, sudden and breathless and irresistible, and she did laugh that time, relief and love and the catch of her breath in her throat as he brought back their children.

Their sons.

They had not quite dared choose names before their birth, just in case.  In case of too many things to contemplate, almost none of which they'd ever said aloud, but even so.  Just in case.

It wasn't hard, now that they were here, to hold them close and feel them breathe and settle them against her breasts and to call them, at last, by name.

_Hrodulf and Leobwin._

> _O Creator, see me kneel:_  
>  _For I walk only where You would bid me_  
>  _Stand only in places You have blessed_  
>  _Sing only the words You place in my throat._

They were beautiful babies.  They had her hair, pale and soft and slowly warming from white to gold as the weeks passed.  Once the birthing blue faded they had their father's eyes, rich and clear and brown and sweet.

Leobwin loved to listen.  The wind through the trees, their father's rumbling laugh, her own light voice as she told them stories.  He was the only baby she'd ever met who was quiet all the way through services, every week, listening to the shift of voices around them as everyone sang the Chant together.

Hrodulf loved light.  He adored the sunlight streaming through the windows, and figured out how to roll, and then how to crawl, and even took his first tottering steps before his brother, holding onto the wall or a bench or a chair so he could follow it across the floor as the hours passed.

They began to talk.

Just to each other at first, no one else, a delighted babble of sounds that made no sense to anyone beyond themselves, shared laughter and glances and clapping hands as they chased their toys, or the cats in the barn, or the dogs in the field, or their mother's every step.

Life was perfect.

She tried desperately not to take perfection for granted this time, to save every smile, every laugh, every grasp of fingers and wiggle of toes and shriek of joy or pain or mischief deep in her heart, to tide her over when life turned again.

It wasn't enough.

> _Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls._  
>  _From these emerald waters doth life begin anew._  
>  _Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you._  
>  _In my arms lies Eternity._

19 months and 4 days.

That was how long they had.

The fevers were bad that year.

The sickness settled in their lungs.

She counted each terrible, rasping breath, praying every time there was a pause, a catch, a sigh that ended too soon.  After everything they'd gone through, after those years of desperation and sorrow, the pain of their delivery, the damage done, never carry more children to term, they could not lose them now.

Not now.

And so she prayed.

And still they lived, in heat, in pain, until finally, there was just one last breath.

And then silence, for far too long.

And then only one voice, one small child, crying, left alone.

Her eyes were dry, at Hrodulf's pyre.  Her voice was steady, as she sang him to his rest.

It was only later, when she tucked Leobwin in and smoothed the blanket beneath his feet, trailed her fingers against the wooden frame and saw the empty place along the wall where his brother used to be, the place where Hrodulf would never sleep again, that she felt the heat in her eyes, and had to cover her mouth to stifle a sob so her child wouldn't hear her cry.

> _My Creator, judge me whole:_  
>  _Find me well within Your grace_  
>  _Touch me with fire that I be cleansed_  
>  _Tell me I have sung to Your approval_

It was hard to learn to smile again.

Her husband never quite got his laugh back, not completely.

But Leobwin was such a joy, they could not live in sorrow forever.

He learned the Chant so quickly, hitting the right note even when he didn't yet know the words.  He made even the Priest laugh with delight, and she was generally a stolid sort, precise and serious.

He followed his father out to the barn and helped with everything and anything, always darting away just an instant before he was too much in the way, his laughter echoing through air gone gold with hay and seeds and dust, his light voice raised and bouncing off wooden beams when the rains came, louder than the drops against the shingles.

He followed his mother around the house when he was banished from fieldwork, having danced too close to hooves, or pulled on too many ears.  He would follow behind her with the broom while she dusted, stir the stew or the batter, or, on the few occasions when someone had actually managed to wear him out, he would lie down beside her and count her stitches while she sewed.

He went darting through the house one cool damp morning, running his fingers along the hems of their formal clothes, the good linens in the closet, the cover she'd just finished for the rocking chair her husband had made her for her most recent Name Day.

He'd asked how she knew the patterns, how she made the pictures, and she brought out her sketch book, showed him the pictures, the counts, the collection of thread and needles, the embroidery frame and the scraps of fabric for practice.  He paused, as he looked through the book, his fingers trailing around the edges of a Chantry sun, and she suddenly couldn't breathe, _Hrodulf_ , he'd been so small, but so very solid, right up until the end, and she could so clearly see his head tilted back as the summer sun warmed his face, the light so bright it made even his pale baby eyelashes cast shadows across his round cheeks.

She asked Leobwin if he'd like that one, the sun, and he lifted his head to look at her, his eyes dark, too dark, old and deep, and she wondered if he could remember his twin, remember his loss, if he woke up in the morning knowing something was missing, some part of his soul, already gone before his time.

Or perhaps he just felt her own sorrow, could hear the rasp in her voice, remembered the stories she'd told him of his brother, so he'd never be completely forgotten.

She was afraid to ask.

So she just waited, until he nodded, and she helped him pick out the color thread he wanted.  Red, of course, red as as the flame, red as heart's blood, red as sorrow.

> _Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._  
>  _Foul and corrupt are they_  
>  _Who have taken His gift_  
>  _And turned it against His children._  
>  _They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._  
>  _They shall find no rest in this world_  
>  _Or beyond._

He'd just wanted to help.

She had a fever.  Nothing too serious, a dry throat, a bit of an ache, skin too hot and tight.  Her husband paused when he kissed her good-morning after he woke, and pushed her back into bed when she tried to rise, and promised her he'd take care of everything, she should rest.

She smiled to herself, imagining him and Leobwin eating scorched toast by the fire, neither of them having the patience to properly simmer the porridge without her there to make them wait.  Without her there to tap greedy fingers with her spoon they were liable to eat half the honey as well, but that was fine.  She tended to sneak all the cinnamon sugar for herself when they had any from the traders, after all.

She was almost asleep again, aches settling in between the blankets, when she heard Leobwin's shriek, high and long and terrible, her husband's hoarse yell, _he never yells, keeps it all down tight behind his eyes_ , and she was halfway across the room before she realized she'd started moving at all, trying to kick the blanket off her feet as she stumbled through the doorway.

_Fire, no, not Leobwin_ , and she grabbed the blanket and lunged forward, trying to get to him, to wrap him tight, to smother his hands before he screamed again, and she made it only another step before her husband's arm stopped her, before he picked her up and held her as she struggled, kicked with legs and shoved with elbows, because _Leobwin was ..._

She felt her body shake, a jerk of her husband's arm, the hiss of his breath, and she stopped struggling as she realized their son wasn't screaming, wasn't burning, his eyes wide and shocked as flames dripped off his fingers, red impossible drops hissing through the air and singing the wood beneath, a catch of black and heat and soot before they disappeared and went out.

He wasn't on fire.

He was the fire.

Her knees gave way, the blanket sliding out of her hands onto the floor, her whole weight supported by the rock solid grip of her husband's arms around her as she realized what she was seeing.

Magic.

She shook her head, _no, no, it cannot be_ , tried not to hear the dirge of _Threnodies_ echoing between her ears, using each beat of her heart to crush her every thought.

Except for one.

_Mage._

Slowly, the fire dripped, and fell, and stopped, and there was their boy, their baby, standing there, arms stretched and wrists canted as if he didn't want to see his own hands, didn't want them to be there, part of him, eyes wide and dark and he looked at her, and she could see him shake his head, see his body trembling, and her husband's arms eased and she was moving, again, falling to her knees and pulling her baby close, tucking his face against her shoulder as she stroked his hair, murmured softly against his head, _shh, darling, shh_ , and he was shaking against her, sobbing, his hands still stretched out behind her as if he was afraid of what they'd do if he touched her, _the water was too cold, I wanted to make you tea, I wanted you to feel better, mutti, please_ ...

She heard her husband's steps against the floor behind them, turned her head enough to watch him sit in her rocking chair.  Watched his eyes turn cool and grey as he leaned back into the shadows.

She'd seen him bow down under despair, those first long four years, seen his body tense with fear when he thought he'd lose her, lose their sons before they even had them.  She'd seen his heart break at Hrodulf's death, his body still as the very stone of the mountains as he watched the small body burn, his skin tight and his movement pained and slow and careful as he'd forced himself to continue on, for her, for Leobwin.

But this, now, she saw his very soul die in his eyes, as he realized he'd lost it all, that Leobwin had lost it all, no love, no life, no family.  No hope left for any of them.

> _O Maker, hear my cry:_  
>  _Guide me through the blackest nights_  
>  _Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked_  
>  _Make me to rest in the warmest places._

Leobwin's father went to get the Templars the next day.  He'd never shirked from his duty, no matter how hard, but it took him three tries to lace his boots, fingers tense and each breath loud enough she could hear it from her place across the room, bent over the fire, staring into the pot as if the answer to her pain was hiding in the porridge.

There was no answer.  No solace anywhere.  Just pain, and loss, and pain again.

She wanted to turn, to tell him to stop, to tell him to stay, just a little longer, just a few more days, together, a family.  But to keep Leobwin with them was the easy way.  It was everything she desired, but it would knock them all from the righteous path, would deny them Andraste's aid through the Void, could condemn them all to something worse in this life, as well as the next, the perils of an untrained mage the sort of thing that spawned stories too dark and gruesome to tell by firelight.

So instead she lifted her head and watched him leave.

He didn't kiss either of them farewell.  Did not even meet her eyes, ducked his head, paused a moment, shoulders tense, one last flare of nostrils as he took a breath, as if he was trying to find something, anything to say.  But he just shook his head, and closed the door quietly behind him.

Leobwin clung to her all day.  She could not bear to push him away, not this one last time, so they spent the day together, curled up on her bed, and she told him stories until her voice gave out, adventures and folk tales, heroes and villains and knights and princes and templars, good ones, who protected their family and kin, who served the Maker and sang His Songs and would cherish each new charge under their care, keep them safe, keep them warm.

She didn't think he believed them, she didn't think she believed them, but she held onto what hope she could.

Eventually stories gave way to silence, her arms wrapped around his shoulders to hold him close, and they waited.  Waited until the air grew thick and gold, the sun almost gone, but not quite, not quite yet, still there, still a glint of hope shivering down her spine, until the knock at the door, heavy and solid, ending everything.

She opened the door, though she considered, briefly, just hiding them both under the covers and refusing to move, ever again.  

But she would not shirk her duty either, no matter how hard.

She stared at the body before her, steel and shadows, haloed by the setting sun.  Silent, and vigilant, and waiting.

She wanted to sob.  She wanted to beg, _please, there must be another way._  Instead she kneeled, and tried to say farewell.

"Tell them you are Anders."  She swallowed, holding in the tears, the screams, the pain in a heart that kept beating despite the fire that burned in her chest.  She had to swallow again, again, place her hand on his chest, she could feel his ribs through the soft fabric of his shirt, _so thin, too thin, always growing, my poor boy_ , feel the beat of his heart beneath her palm.  "From that they will know you are strong, strong as the mountains, strong as the sky, and that you can do anything the Maker asks of you."

He shook his head, eyes wide, a shimmer just barely held in check by his lashes. _Not this, I can't do this._

She felt the tears fall, despite her best intentions, the slow slide of water down her cheek, another along her nose.  She ignored them.  She nodded.   _Yes, you can.  Yes, we can._

He closed his eyes, his entire face screwed tight as he tried not to cry.  She glanced at the Templar waiting in the doorway, lifting her eyebrows, one finger, _one more moment?_

The steel helm nodded, slow and sure, and she turned quickly, finding what she needed in the basket by her chair, carefully hidden beneath a folded cloth, the pillow she'd just finished the day before, the present she'd wanted to surprise him with after weekly services.

She let her fingers touch the skin of his arm, let her hand find his, and tugged him close for one last embrace.  As he let go she turned her wrist, opened up his arms, and set the pillow in his grasp.  She managed a smile for him, as his fingers found the edge of the embroidery, as he looked down at the red sun she'd made him, bright and bold and fearless.

_Like you will have to be, my darling._

He tilted his head, just a little, following the curve of his hand around his gift.  He lifted his head to look at her at last, and there were those eyes again, his brother's eyes in the wrong face, old and dark and lost.  He turned away then, not another word, no more tears, and she held herself still.

The Templar gave her one last nod, and her fingers clenched at her side, _nothing to hold onto,_ watching as a heavy gauntlet settled on her boy's thin shoulder, and that was the last she saw of him, blonde hair catching against cold steel before the door closed and they were gone.

She closed her eyes.

Her stomach twisted, and she curled down tight around it, tighter still, until her forehead rested against the floor.  Forced herself to breathe, even as her hand splayed flat beside her, pressing down, and down, trying to make herself as smooth and cool as the well-worn wood.

It didn't work.  It hurt, that spot low in her stomach where her cramps settled each moon, a painful reminder of the woman she could never be.  It hurt in her chest, each breath too sharp and shallow, each heartbeat too hard to fit beneath her skin, a thud against her ribs that she could feel in her thighs and knees.

Her fingers curled, nails catching on the wood, pain sharp and perfect, splintering up her fingers, just enough to give her something else to think about, just enough to be sure she didn't die.

She heard the door open, felt the stride of his feet, slow and heavy towards her, the sigh of his breath as he kneeled down, as he dropped a hand against her shoulders, slid one down her arm to brush against her hand, to ease her muscles and her grip.  She turned her head away, tried to turn her body, but he was too strong for her, too solid, and he eased her close, lifted her up until she gave in, curled against the broad expanse of his chest, and let her head rest against his shoulder.

He cried this time, as he'd never let her see before, a tremble in his body, a catch in his breathing, the warm wet drop of tears into her hair.

She could not join him, for all she'd wanted nothing more than to share his grief after Hrodulf.  It was too much, now, both gone, both lost, and there would never be more.  No child with her eyes, no child with his gentle touch, no one to care when they grew old.

Her eyes stayed dry as the room grew dark around them.

> _My Maker, know my heart_  
>  _Take from me a life of sorrow_  
>  _Lift me from a world of pain_  
>  _Judge me worthy of Your endless pride_

They'd married young

Too young, her mother had said.

It made it easier, now, to know what to do.  He was young enough he could try again.  He'd always wanted children, dreamed of them, wanted to raise them, give them the land when he grew too old to care for it himself.

She knew he was considering speaking to the Priest about the closest Chantry Orphanage, but she knew his heart would never heal enough to care for a foundling, not if every morning he woke to see her face, an echo of their lost sons to hurt his heart every time the sun caught in her hair.

She would miss his eyes, when she was gone, one last reminder of their sons, of their Leobwin, wherever he was now.

But she had to go, for him, for the chance, at last, that he could find some happiness.

She could not bear to be the reason he still sorrowed.  He held her close at night, so close, he stroked her hair before he left each day, lingering after breakfast, a crease between his brows as he watched her move around the kitchen.

She had to set him free.

She spoke to the Priest first, about the technicalities of marriage, of their vows, of her inability to provide her husband with an heir of his body.  The Priest tried to talk her out of it, told her that there was no blame, she should not take such shame upon her, that hard times were when they should turn to each other, lean on each other, that the Maker had brought them together and there was no need for her to ask such things.

So she bowed her head, and nodded, and came back the next day to ask again.

She asked for an annulment, for a place for her to go, a place where she could serve the Maker in other ways, when she left her first life behind.

The Priest told her to talk to her husband, and gently escorted her home.

He knew, as soon as he saw them.  Of course he knew, he knew her so well, her heart, her love, and he stood from the table and walked towards her, no words, just shaking his head, _no, no, not you too, no,_ and he held out his arms and she stepped forward, at last, her head tucked into the curve of his neck, the smell of his skin and the scratch of the collar of his shirt against her nose and she was sobbing, hot tears against her skin and her nose running and her hands clinging to his shoulders, the fabric catching under her nails.

He held her close, solid and steady, as the Priest left them alone, as her body shook and her heart ached and she had to fight to breathe, to stand, to cry.  

He dried her tears when she was done, his lips soft and gentle as he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth.  She slid her hands beneath his shirt to feel his skin, the planes of his muscles against her palms, and kissed him back, long and slow until they both were breathless.

He picked her up and carried her to bed, undressed her as if she was precious, unwrapping a present, taking his time, his hands against her skin, his lips pausing to feel the beat of her heart against them when he kissed the hollows of her throat.  

They both pretended that it was a new beginning, rather than an ending.

In the morning though, she woke to find him lying beside her, already awake, watching her sleep, and she met his eyes, the honey brown gone cool and still, and knew that it was over.  She loved him still, knew to the depths of her bones he felt the same, and yet, it wasn't enough.  It hurt too much, too deep, soul and heart and body bruised beyond repair.

He helped her pack, and held her close and kissed her good-bye, and neither of them cried again, until she was gone, and they were both alone.

> _Many are those who wander in sin,_  
>  _Despairing that they are lost forever,_  
>  _But the one who repents, who has faith_  
>  _Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_  
>  _And boasts not, nor gloats_  
>  _Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight_  
>  _In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know_  
>  _The peace of the Maker's benediction._

They sent her to work in a hospice, after she was dedicated.  It was hard, but satisfying, sometimes even peaceful, the grace of comfort and a job well done, and they never asked her to work with children.  She still dreamed, sometimes, of brown eyes and strong hands and children laughing, of fingers caught in red thread, of drops of fire falling like rain.  She prayed each morning as her dreams settled back where they belonged, and she thanked Andraste for Her care, for looking after her boys, her loves, all three of them, wherever they were now.  

Her hair faded, from gold to yellow to white.  It was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: religion, infertility, miscarriage, child death


End file.
